


The Escape Artist

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rob was all the time talking about escaping. Mike never thought he'd leave him behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Escape Artist

**Author's Note:**

> Tah Dah

On a morning all I can smell is coffee.

On a morning he sits outside and cries. I like to think where every tear falls a flower grows. The neighbours think I beat him.

This is my life. People don’t realise that his being depressed means I’m depressed too. Only he says “I’m not depressed,” and “It’s just…the war. The terrorism.”

And I tell him, “If war came here it’d mean we could stay in bed all morning together.”

And he says “You don’t get it, Mike”

I don’t. And he doesn’t try to explain. I want to get mad and throw things, punch a wall, but it’s not like I ever bothered to ask.

***

We never argue. Mostly it’s because he’s too tired. I used to pretend I was cheating on him. I’d come home late, “Hey Robbie,” I’d say “I’m home late again. Don’t you want to yell and scream?” I’d say.

“Don’t you want to get out of bed?”

So when New Years Eve rolls around and I say “Let’s go to the beach,” he just shrugs and smiles weakly. We walk hand in hand on the beach; the wind cold and the sky alight with fireworks exploding above us.

Under his breath he whispers “Maybe this year will be the year.”

I wonder about all the things he could mean. Maybe this will be the year we’ll get married. Maybe this will be the year we adopt. Maybe this year he’ll be happy.

***

The next day I wake up alone to the smell of coffee. And of course he’s outside on his own with his hands wrapped around a mug. So I get up and go sit on the step with him in the January cold, wearing just my boxers, smoking a cigarette. He rests his head on my shoulder and I say “Can I kiss you? Even though I’ve been smoking?”

And he says “When we kiss I can hear your thoughts.”

I try to think of what runs through my head. Probably stupid stuff about how I never want him to leave me. Maybe I’m thinking about where his hands are or if we’re going to, you know, do it.

And he says “So I don’t think we should.”

Any other day I’d flick away the butt of my cigarette and stand up, go inside. But today I say “If that’s what you want.” And sit beside him in silence. Our knees pressed together. The cold, winter sun burning out into nothing above us.

***

We don’t have sex anymore and that’s okay. He thinks it isn’t, and he’s all the time saying “I’m sorry,” and crying “I love you and I’m sorry.”

And I just hold him close and sweep my thumb across his cheek. “I love you too,” I say. I want to tell him he has nothing to apologise but all that comes out of my mouth is a lullaby, and he falls asleep with tears still drying on his cheeks.

***

I come home from work one day earlier than I should because I have the worst headache. The kind that looms and hovers and follows you around all day. And I promised myself if one more person asked “Are you okay?” or asked how life is at home I was going to grab my keys and leave. And I never, ever break a promise.

The house is silent when I get home and, as I take the stairs two at a time I think about New Years Eve on the beach and how, in retrospect, that’s the moment he decided to do it.

***

What happens next is a blur. Somewhere between the blood, vomit, crying, phone call, sirens, paramedics, crying, blood, ambulance, crying, hospital, doctors, white, white, white, crying, machines, time of death and crying I think about how I felt sick this morning and nearly called in sick.

What if I had called in sick?

What if I had been there to stop him?

Did he really love me?

As they unplug the machines I’m thinking, how could he leave me behind like this?

***

Don’t for one minute think I’m over him. The neighbours think I killed him and I don’t correct them.

Rob used to talk about escaping. He was all the time saying "One day I'll get away."

I thought he meant that I could come too.

***

In the middle of the night I wake up and all I can smell is coffee. I roll out of bed and pads downstairs in my boxers. The house is cold and I shiver as I push open the kitchen door.

That’s when I remember that he’s dead.

So I go outside and sit on the step and cry into the night. And I imagine, where every tear falls, a flower grows.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by asofterworld


End file.
